I'll Always Believe In Him
by TeaNaiswell
Summary: Three months after the Reichenbach Fall, John finally goes back to his and Sherlock's old flat. Warning: HEAVY ANGST AND GRIEF ENSUES. Subtle Johnlock. Reviews would be very much appreciated!


My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.

I know he is a good man. He's the best human being I've known. No matter how strange he's been, he's always been there for me. I don't care what the world thinks. I knew Sherlock better than anyone else did.

It hurts. I can't do anything without remembering him. I can't go anywhere without him on my mind. It hurts to think about the universally believed disgrace in which he took his own life. It hurts to think about the last phone call.

And now my therapist asks me to not only think about it. She asks me to talk about the whole thing. She asks me to let it out. She asks me to talk about my life when my friend Sherlock was alive. I can't. I just can't. I can feel the blood rushing to my face and my throat constricting.

"I can't," I choke.

"You have to," my therapist urges. "You have to get it out."

"Sure," I say. I draw in a breath to stop my voice from breaking. I swallow and Sherlock's face blinds my eyes. I recall the enigmatic way he drew in his chin and folded up his collar. I smile for a moment, because it really feels like he's there. Like he's right beside me. I feel my eyes sting and he's gone. "My friend Sherlock—is dead."

A wave of chill engulfs my chest and I hold my fingertips to my eyes. My therapist comes and sits beside me and tells me it's alright. I am blinded again by the way he stood on the roof of St. Bart's—I see him spread his arms out and it seems like he's falling forever. It won't stop. It's beautiful, though, as his coat billows over him fluidly and covers him as he falls. And the image of the endless flow of ruby crimson won't leave my eyes. His face, grazed with the streaks of the fluid from the blow, and his eyes blankly open—no—I can't—

I try to recollect a time when he was alive but his body hinders the image. I can't forgive that. I can't forget it.

I can't see that flat any longer. But yet I miss the memories that it holds and I want to feel them again.

I open up to the therapist, with each painstaking breath I draw in to stifle the urge to cry. My voice is so thick with the hurt in my throat, crying to close in. I tell her everything. She said before that she sometimes reads the papers; I don't know whether or not she knows about Moriarty or the 'suicide of fake genius' thing. But she listens to my story. I can't be sure whether or not she believes it. Whether she believes in Sherlock. She doesn't say anything concerning the event but she encourages and thanks me for having told her it all. She persists in asking me several further questions, and then I am happy to see her leave.

That night I visit my blog again. I read through all the posts I have made in the past. My eyes fill, mostly with the pain of the nostalgia, but I feel warm. I recall the event of the Study in Pink and how I dove in to shoot the cab driver as I watched in horror as Sherlock held the pill before him, smiling to himself, some amusing thought passing his mind, surely. The blow of the gun startles him as he sees the driver slump to the ground, and his eyes dart to the bullet hole in the window. I leave quickly as I watch from a distance as his eye looks for the source, but he can't find it.

I read about the Hounds of Baskerville, and remember how Sherlock used me as an experiment and locked me into that room, and powered down the lights, urging my through my cell that everything was fine. I smile a little as I think of how my fright must've amused him. But I was scared as hell. I locked myself into a cage and I sighed in relief as the lights powered back on and Sherlock got me out, soothing me gently as I flew at him madly, bellowing furiously at him, trying to assure him that there was a dog. And then when I found out that I was used as a guinea pig.

I see that the posts end there and another chill dives sharply into my chest. I compose another post. I don't title it. And I write, "He was my friend and I'll always believe in him."

I have to go back to the flat tonight. I have to. Without a second thought, I grab my jacket and fly out the door and walk further into the city. I get a cab—and I find myself ensuring that the driver isn't an old man in a newsie hat and glasses.

"221B Baker Street," I say and pay the fee. The driver recognizes the address, I think, and looks at me a little surprised, but doesn't say anything and drives me there.

It is a strange feeling, being dropped off in the exact same way at the same place as I had been more than three months ago. My stomach lurches in anxiety at this and my chest fills with some uneasy excitement. For a moment I contemplate whether to get off or ask the driver to take me back to where I had come from—but no: I have to get off. I must.

I do, and right in front of the door. I knock on it uncertainly, my stomach lurching more threateningly and painfully. For the smallest fraction of a second I wonder whether Sherlock burst out, prominently showing his cheekbones and vanish out into the street. But the door is answered in a few moments, and by the little, old lady with dark, short-cropped hair. Mrs. Hudson. She seems rather overwhelmed at my presence and her eyes fill right away, her cheeks blushing with crimson.

"Oh—John, dear," she pulls me into an embrace immediately, her lavender powder scent immediately reminding me of old times. "You look rather peaky, dear," she says, her voice breaking immediately and her lip quivers. "I'll get you some tea. But only this once, I'm not your housekeeper." I don't think she meant to say it, because her face contorts painfully and she hides her face in her hands, turning away. "I have just been to the flat—you can go directly in." She hurries off, having said so.

I follow up the stairs and it feels so strange to hear the boards creak the same way they used to. I'm at the door and I feel like I'm going to see a great mess, especially in the kitchen, once I open it.

There's complete silence inside the flat. I don't know why but I'm just—surprised. I flick the lights on and I see the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson hasn't rid of the furnishings. I don't think she will. The sofa is empty, and the walls still bear their hangings; the painting of a skull, the skull itself on top of the fireplace—all of it is still there. The knife is still stuck in the block where he stabbed it. Everything about this room, the walls, the furnishings, the floor, everything still bears Sherlock's scent. He's still alive in this flat. I know it.

I advance ahead and take a look into the kitchen and it's strangely empty. A dull blow sounds in my chest as I see all of his equipment is boxed up and stacked at the corner of the room. That's all Mrs. Hudson's got to. I don't think she wants to give all of it away. It was Sherlock's and it always will be.

In the sitting room I sit down in the chair I used to sit in before and hear the honking and rushing of the cars outside, almost echoing endlessly in my ears. I look at the abandoned violin on Sherlock's chair that is opposite mine. I don't want to move it elsewhere. I never want to see it sold. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted that.

I move around the flat and see the music stand where he left his infinite sheets of composition. The hand of the notes is exactly the way I remembered them—I somewhat expected it to be different. Sherlock had written this and soon he would have to get back to finishing a composition. As I sieve through the sheets, I see a composition at the back of the stack, and it is incomplete. He named it 'Reichenbach'; as I turn the sheet over, I see a note addressed to me. He had written it before the police came to arrest him. It says, 'John—it was all a magic trick.'

I bite my lip as hard as I can and press my fingers to my eyes and draw in a sharp breath and go back to Sherlock's bedroom.

It's a big mess in here. I remember how he had fallen weakly to the floor when Irene Adler had injected him with that strange thing, and Sherlock insisted he was fine—I tossed him back into his bed and told him he ought to get some rest. His bed has been vacant for over three months. It feels cold.

I go back to my own room and take a quick glance out of the window. I sit back into my bed and pull the covers over myself. It feels like Sherlock is still alive in here. Why hasn't he come and told me how he is? Why? When will he come back? I can't forgive him now. Not when he leaves in that way and tries to convince me of those ridiculous stories everyone believes. I need him again. I need him. I haven't heard his gun go off on the wall an eternity ago. I can't bear it—I can't—

I let my sob rack against my ribs and my entire frame shudder. I bury my face into my pillow and cry it all away quietly until I've lost my breath. Sherlock's image blinds my eyes again; the day he burst out with observations when I came into the lab—everything he knew about me, my sister—no matter what he said, I know he was the only one clever enough to be able to know that much. He was the best man I ever knew, and he never bothered himself with wanting appreciation, nothing. I knew him. I know Sherlock. And he saved my life. He saved many lives.

I cry until I really feel Sherlock beside me; he's trying to take my arm and caress it gently and soothe my excited feelings. I look up and it's Mrs. Hudson. Her eyes are overflowing. I sit up and hug her.

"Come, John, dear," her lips quiver. "I have tea in the living room for you."

I follow her and we sit on the sofa and take tea. I don't know why I'd have tea at ten at night, but I feel like I need to be here. It feels right. She asks me how I've been; and after I've cleared my voice from any chance of breaking, I tell her how it has all been, and about my sister. For the first time in the longest time, I really feel at home.

After I drain my cup, and Mrs. Hudson hers, I contemplate once, and then make up my mind.

"Mrs. Hudson," I say, "I think I'll come back here."

She seems happier than I have ever seen her. And more fragile than ever. She's been taking it poorly even though she hasn't said anything. I tell her I will be gone for tonight but will relocate back here as soon as I can, and as I grab for my jacket and head for the door, she hugs me again and kisses my cheek.

"Tomorrow," I smile, and leave.


End file.
